Apropos of Everything
by IronicNarwhal
Summary: As Armin closes the camera, their friends are in the kitchen cutting into a cake that just says, "Congratulations." With so many things to celebrate, it's really the only appropriate thing. (In which Eren is a soldier, Jean copes with being an ocean apart, and their friends are a saving grace.)


"What time is it over there?"

Jean smirks, rolls his eyes and mutters, "You know what time it is." Eren has been capable of making the conversion in his head since week two of his deployment. That was almost ago now, and Eren should be coming home soon. Jean aches with the knowledge, with the need to touch him for the first time in ten months.

"I know," Eren says, and Jean can see his hand move just out of view, knows that he's brushing his fingers over the keyboard like he would be Jean's arm if he were here in person. "Wanna hear you say it. Tell me what's going on, yeah? I like your voice. It feels like home."

A furious blush works its way onto Jean's cheeks. Three years of dating, one of them long-distance, and he's still blushing at the simplest charming gesture from Eren.

"You're so weird, God," he mutters, but takes a breath and continues, "It's one AM, and I'm up to talk to you despite having work tomorrow, which you already _knew…_Um…Oh, my uh, my thesis project? The, uh, lighting plot on _The Glass Menagerie_? That got approved, so…next semester that'll be a thing."

"Congratulations, baby. I can't wait to see it."

Jean smiles, bowing his head because it makes him so ridiculously happy every time Eren makes reference to being home soon, and he doesn't know how Eren would react to that much unfettered emotion being thrown at him. "Thanks. It'll be good, I think. Um…" He glances around the dark room, the empty house, casts about for something interesting to say. "Everyone is_ asleep_, including Titan. He's using my butt as a bed, instead of the _really expensive_ one I bought him, and he's fucking heavy." He takes hold of his webcam, pointing it towards his rear, "Can you see? What a moron."

"Cute," Eren says, and Jean can see him squinting to see Titan's sleeping form in the dimness of Jean's bedroom. Jean chuckles and glances over his shoulder, straining to see what Eren is seeing.

"Yeah, I suppose even evil sleeps," he mutters, staring at the coil of calico fur.

"Well, I was talking about your ass, but I suppose Titan's kind of cute too."

Jean groans and resists the urge to cover his face with his hands, clips the webcam back to the top of his laptop and scowls at Eren. "You're gross, ugh. I'm gonna hang up on you." Despite his words, he makes no move to actually hang up, and he and Eren spend a few minutes just staring at each other. Eren is wearing that tan tee-shirt that seems to be the closest thing to civvies anybody in the marines gets while on deployment. Jean misses the Eren of the large sweaters and hoodies worn over tanks, jeans with rips in the knees and cut-off shorts, converse, hair hanging in his eyes.

"So," Eren sighs, scratching his ear, "no word on my leave yet."

Sighing, Jean nods. "Yeah. I was expecting as much."

"But that doesn't mean there won't be. Fourteen months is a long time without leave, and things are…things are winding down over here. We're not exactly twiddling our thumbs with nothing to do yet, but it's been calm." He leans back and grimaces, rubbing his face. "But at this point, I'm going to miss your birthday. I'm sorry, baby. I know that I said I would be home by then, but…it's just not in the cards."

"It's okay," Jean says, and means it. Even though Eren has missed two Easters, two birthdays and a Christmas since he's been deployed, he means it. "I get it. This is…it's your life, it's your job. It comes first. And even if you got your papers ten minutes from now, it would be too short of notice. Flights from Afghanistan don't just leave every day, I'm figuring."

Eren does not outright agree, but he hums in a resigned way and then, almost like something occurs to him, he leans closer with a filthy smirk. "We'll celebrate when I get home, okay? It's not everyday you turn twenty-five. We won't leave the bedroom for a _week_, babe. We'll have Marco bring us our food."

"Yeah, no. You're going to be making the rounds," Jean says, because Eren has also missed Mikasa's birthday, his mother's birthday, and spent his own birthday overseas. Jean thinks there might be some sort of big celebration in the works somewhere in the recesses of the Jaeger-Ackerman clan for when Eren comes back. Jean has heard noises about it, but nothing concrete yet. He thinks it's a family thing, however, because everyone shuts up about it when he walks in the room.

(To be honest it pisses him off a bit, because until now he and everyone in Eren's immediate family have been more or less in it together, but now they're keeping secrets. It hurts.)

Then Eren's face softens, so he doesn't look upset or salacious anymore. He smiles at Jean, and it makes Jean's heart skip a beat because even after all this time, even after high school and undergrad and everything they've been through together—their initial hatred, the furious rivalry, Eren deciding to go to into the army, ten months of grainy Skype videocalls—the sight of Eren's smile is something he hasn't quite gotten used to, in the best way possible.

"I love you," he murmurs. Jean digs his nails into his own hand to stop himself doing something horribly sappy, like press his fingers against the laptop screen. "I can't wait to see you…can't wait until my leave comes through."

"Me either," Jean says softly, around the lump in his throat. The clock clicks over to one-thirty. He yawns, and someone on Eren's end of the line gives a very loud bellow. It's nine AM in Afghanistan, and the day is just starting.

"Ah, damn," Eren mutters, glancing over his shoulder. "That was the captain. I've gotta go, babe. I, uh, won't be able to talk for a day or two, okay? We're being sent to another outpost to do maintenance on some of the vehicles there, and that's going to take a few days."

"But Friday is my birthday, Eren," Jean says, feeling disappointment weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. "I was hoping we could at least…_talk_."

"I know," Eren says, and he looks crushed. Jean's heart aches. "I'm sorry, but orders are orders. You understand, right?"

"Yes," Jean says, and he does, even if he wishes things were different. "I understand. Be careful, okay? I love you."

"Love you too," Eren says, and the last thing Jean sees is his hand reaching towards the top of the screen, presumably to lower the lid of his laptop. He closes his own, sets it under his bed, and presses his face into his pillow. He does not cry.

* * *

Thursday passes in monotony and even more radio silence from more or less everyone he knows. Even Marco is being squirrelly. It's beginning to bug him, and he can't think of why it would be happening aside from his desolation rolling of him in literal waves. Maybe that's why; maybe it's more torturous for his friends to be around him that not at this point. He's not sure which concept—them avoiding him, or them flat-out ignoring him—hurts more.

On Friday morning, he wakes up very early due to difficulty sleeping. The agenda for the day involves sitting around and feeling sorry for himself, because nobody has made any move to invite him out for his birthday or even made noises about coming over. It was hard enough getting through knowing that Eren won't be calling at all, even for ten minutes. Still shirtless in his pajama bottoms, he plops onto the couch and forms a method of action which involves him moving from this spot as few times as possible for the next twelve hours.

Of course, Marco comes stomping down the hall at that point, having a rather heated conversation on the phone. Of course, for Marco, 'heated' just means lowering his voice and frowning even though the other person can't see him.

"I don't know, Armin. Mikasa was going to drive him—I thought my job was keeping you-know-who occupied." He sighs, and it even sounds a little irritated, which Saint Marco Bodt almost never gets. "What's so important that she can't drive him? Since when? Can she…I dunno, can she call in sick? Well this isn't going to work if we don't have a driver, Armin! He can hardly drive himself; he doesn't have a car! I mean…" Finally, he realizes that Jean is present, and his tongue does a weird thing where it flaps wildly for a minute before he says, very loudly, "HI JEAN."

"HI MARCO," he screams back, because he's a little shit and more or less everyone he knows is aware of it. "WHY ARE WE YELLING? WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?"

"NOBODY," Marco yells back, and then hangs up.

Jean rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Marco. What's going on?"

"Reiner's, uh, dog. Had surgery? And he needs someone to drive him to pick the dog up?"

Once again, Jean gives Marco a disbelieving look. "You're a terrible liar, Marco. Seriously. What's going on?"

Marco waves his hands. "I'm serious! Nothing, it's Reiner's dog—"

"Reiner doesn't even _own_ a dog, Marco! At least he didn't the last time I was over there, which considering that was three days ago, probably hasn't changed." Despite himself and his desire for complete and utter immobility, he pushes himself off the couch to stand in the kitchen arch and confront him. "I don't like to be lied to, Marco; you know that. And today's _really_ not a good day for it, so just tell me what's going on and I won't get angry."

"Oh," Marco mumbles, and he stops looking so shifty, starts looking a bit more sorry. "What happened? It's your birthday, shouldn't you be…happy?"

Part of him really doesn't want to talk about it, but the other part knows that Marco is his best friend, and with a boyfriend somewhere in BFE Afghanistan doing God only knows what, Marco is the best ear he has. So he sits back down and runs a hand through his hair, sighing, "Eren doesn't have leave; you know that. Thing is, he…won't even be able to talk to me today. He's going to be incommunicado for, like, four days because they sent him somewhere to work on something. And I kind of figured his leave wouldn't come through because…you know, it's me. When was the last time anything went right? But I was pretty optimistic that I would get to talk to him, and now…" He sighs, rubs his face. "On top of that, everyone has been ignoring me, and I don't know _why_…"

From the kitchen archway, Marco mutters, "Oh, crap," in a way that somehow manages to sound both sympathizing and dejected. He comes closer and sits in front of Jean on the coffee table. "It's because…they're planning a surprise party for you. Okay? Please don't tell anyone I said anything. That was Armin on the phone just now, and he's panicking because Mikasa was supposed to drive Connie to get your cake from Sasha's bakery, but now she has to work until noon, and we're not sure who's going to do it now. I'm supposed to…to distract you. Get you out of the house so they can decorate. And so there can be an actual surprise portion, you know?"

"Oh," Jean mumbles, and some part of the little black cloud that has been hovering above his head all week clears. "Oh…that's really sweet of you guys. But tell them to call it off, okay? I don't think I'm in the mood. If they want to go out for dinner, or come over and have pizza or something that's one thing, but I really don't feel like partying right now."

"No! Jean, come on. They'll hate me if they found out I told you, and…maybe a celebration is just what you need, you know? I'm not letting you turn twenty-five without doing _something_, Jean. You're a quarter century old, it's got to count for something."

This makes Jean chuckle despite himself, and look up at Marco through his fringe. He's got one of those earnest looks on his face, the one that could probably get the guy out of murder if the necessity ever came up, and despite being truthful when he expressed his misgivings, Jean finds himself saying, "Yeah. Okay. I suppose…you can call Armin back and tell him you'll go get the cake. Just tell him…you'll take me with you and we'll go to the café, or something. Pretend like you'll sneak the cake into the car when I'm not looking. I'll go get dressed."

Marco smiles. "Thanks, Jean. That'll make this a lot easier. It's hard lying to you."

"For you? It's hard to lie in general," Jean snorts, then pats Marco's should to assure that he knows it's just a joke, gets up and heads into the bathroom.

* * *

When Jean walks into Sasha's shop alongside Marco, Sasha first looks as Jean as though he's caught her in a compromising position with a dog, or something similar, then shoots a glare at Marco while saying, "Hey, Jean. I wasn't expecting to see you today."

Jean, aggressively pretending to be none the wiser while somehow holding back snorts of laughter, raises an eyebrow—so casual; theatre major, fuck yeah—and drawls, "So am I not welcome, Sasha?"

"_No_," Sasha grumbles, rolling her eyes at the very idea. This, at least, is genuine, and Jean smiles. In hindsight, it seems silly to think that any of his friends would forget about his birthday, or not talk to him without a good reason. "Don't be dumb. Happy birthday, by the way. Do you want a cakepop? It's on the house, since it's your birthday and all."

"Yeah, sure," Jean says, grinning because Sasha's cakepops are arguably his favorite sweet treat in the world.

"Okay. Why don't you, ah, look them over and make a choice. I've got something in the back that I need to do. It actually might, uh, take more than two hands. I'm just gonna…steal Marco here for a second." With a furious glare in Marco's direction—and lord, if looks could kill—she grabs his sleeve and pulls him into the back, leaving Jean to ogle the cakepops and contemplate the sort of punishment that Sasha is subjecting Marco to in the backroom right now.

His phone pings, the popping noise that Skype uses, and his heart flies into his mouth as he takes out his phone and unlocks the screen. He puts in his passcode—0330, Eren's birthday because he's a fucking sap—slowly, with a weird kind of rhythm like the number of times his thumb flexes will mean it's Eren, that he's somehow gotten back earlier than usual and asking if he can call. It's something he's been doing for weeks—taking a specific number of breaths, collapsing the skype window between Eren's instant messages, hoping that when he opens the window back up, it will be to a time and a day when Eren will be on a flight back stateside.

This time, it's simply Christa wishing him a happy birthday. He wonders if she's in on the whole surprise party business or not, but finds the whole process of getting his hopes up only for them to be crushed to be exhausting, and he suddenly doesn't really care. He still doesn't feel like partying.

Sasha comes back around, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves as she goes. Marco hasn't emerged from the backroom, but he figures it's because he's taking the cake out to the car, and he's not feeling playful enough to taunt Sasha.

"So which one do you want?" she asks, gazing down at the assorted pops. "I'll even give you a couple to take home, if you want. Because you're my favorite—don't tell Connie."

Jean laughs, because he's sure that Connie's status of _fiancé_ probably trumps his own no matter what, but he appreciates the sentiment. "Uh, give me a couple of the coffee ones, yeah?"

"Good choice," Sasha says, and places half a dozen in a box, then slides it across the counter for him. Marco emerges from the backroom in that time, and is at Jean's side by the time he has his hands on the box. She smiles, winks and says, "Don't eat them all at once," then waves at them as they exit the store.

The cake box is sitting out in the open in the backseat, probably because Marco sees no point in hiding it when Jean knows the entire scheme. As Jean puts down his small box on top of the considerably larger one that contains the cake, he says, "Hey, can I take a look at the cake?"

"_No_," Marco grumbles, like he's said something utterly ridiculous, and shoos Jean's hand out of the way before he can sneak a peek. "I'd like to keep at least _something_ a surprise, Jean. You can get a look at the cake when you blow out the candles, just like everyone else who isn't Sasha."

Jean rolls his eyes. "Fine. How much longer until we can go back?"

"Uh…give it at least another hour. That'll give everyone time to get there. Sasha's still working, as you can see…although I think she's leaving now. I'm not sure how late Mikasa is going to end up working."

Sighing, Jean mumbles, "Fine…can we at least get a bite to eat? It's noon and I haven't eaten yet; I'm starving."

Marco smiles, nods. "Yeah, sure."

* * *

Halfway through lunch, Marco gets a call which must say something like, "We're ready," because Marco replies, "_Everyone_ is there?" and put significant emphasis on the word, which Jean figures refers to Mikasa or Sasha or someone whose attendance was hanging in the balance earlier. This time, Jean hears the other person on the line, Armin, who says, "Everyone," and Marco says, "Cool," and then they both hang up.

"We can go back, now," Marco says, then adds, "But finish your lunch first."

Jean says, "Okay," but doesn't make a move to continue to eat. He hasn't had much enthusiasm, for food or otherwise, lately.

Eventually Marco catches onto this, sets down his sandwich and mumbles, "What are you thinking about?" while tilting his head to the side, frowning. It's Marco's _talk to me_ frown, which usually has a very high success rate, but Jean is feeling less and less like socializing as the day goes on and he doesn't know how to tell Marco that he really, really just wants to lay down and feel sorry for himself at this point, That everyone's energy has gone to waste, and in all likelihood he'll last about an hour before herding everyone out the door and offering them empty gratitude.

So instead he says, "Eren," because it's not really a lie, and Marco nods in understanding.

"Yeah. I get that. But I don't think he'd want you feeling sad, you know? He'll be home soon. How long will you guys have together before he leaves again?"

Jean shrugs. "Officially, it's two years…but the more likely scenario is however long it takes for his number to come up again."

"Better than nothing, right?"

"Yeah," Jean says softly, staring past Marco's head out the window, "But, you know…I'm kind of selfish. I want him all to myself, and I want him for as long as I can get him."

"I think most people feel that way about people they love," Marco says softly, squeezes Jean's hand and pushes his plate towards him. "Finish your food. I thought you said you were hungry?"

"I was," Jean says, but finishes his sandwich, and follows Marco back to the car after they're finished. The drive back is filled with music from the nineties station and Marco humming along, Jean trying to untangle the ball of dread in his stomach. Marco seems eager, though, so he tries to be enthusiastic as they climb the stairs, emerge onto their floor, and open the door to their apartment.

It's dark, which Jean was expecting, and there is a _shh_ that he pretends not to hear. He follows Marco into the living room, where he turns on the light and their friends pop out. Jean actually does jump and jerk back a few feet, because there isn't a lot that can prepare a man for literally everyone he knows to come popping out from his sofa, television and kitchen yelling, "SURPRISE!" and it really _is_ everyone, even Eren's mom.

"Holy hell, you guys!" he screams, not even pretending, "You almost gave me a heart attack!" And everyone laughs, obviously believing that they've pulled one over on him. He makes the decision not to throw Marco under the bus, and allows them to continue thinking that. Armin has a camera, and he spares a thought for what his face must look like on the recording, before he realizes that there is an open laptop on the coffee table, and a very familiar face is onscreen.

"Eren?" he mumbles, eyes wide.

"I was wondering when you would notice," he says, smiling. "Happy birthday."

"Did you _plan_ this?" he asks, stepping up and kneeling in front of the computer. "Did you fake me out on purpose?"

"Well, no," Eren says at length. There's something strange going on with the picture, like he's walking and talking. That doesn't make sense because Eren doesn't have a smart phone or anything like it, but he might be carrying the computer with him for whatever reason. "I was telling the truth when I said I was traveling, and that I wouldn't be able to talk to you for awhile."

"But you lied when you said you wouldn't be able to talk on my birthday," Jean says, as a statement because it's obvious to him that it's a fact.

"Yeah," Eren says, and he has the grace to look sheepish.

"What an asshole," Jean mutters, but he can't help smiling, sitting back on his heels. He wishes that everyone weren't around him and that he had an hour or so alone with Eren and their (actually decent for once) Skype connection, but he'll take what he can get. "You're the worst boyfriend."

"Yeah, I suppose I am." Eren grins, and Jean feels suspicious because Eren almost always refutes such claims even if they're joking—someone knocks on the door and Marco, still in the entryway, says _I'll get it_; Jean ignores him—but he's not sure if he's got something he's not telling Jean, or because he just doesn't want to argue in front of their friends on his birthday.

"What are you doing?" he says finally, because the shakiness of the camera is really getting to him. "Walking? Like…where even are you? It's…it looks like…"

He stops. He stops dead in his tracks, stops talking and moving and probably _breathing_ for a solid five seconds because Marco has com into frame. On Eren's side of the camera. They both wave at Jean.

It's hard to stand up and turn around, mostly because he's afraid to but also because his legs don't seem to be working properly. Somehow he gets himself turned around, staring at Eren, Eren in his living room, Eren standing there in civvies—jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, canvas sneakers. Eren with a smile on his face and a phone in his hand.

For some reason, the only reaction that Jean is capable of his to scream, cover his mouth, try to speak, and end up sobbing. He stands there, doesn't even move towards Eren, just stands there in the middle of his own living room and has a fucking break down.

"Baby…" Eren says, looking concerned and alarmed but somehow still happy. It's him that takes the necessary steps across the living room to hug Jean, and only then does Jean move, wrapping his arms around Eren like a vice, face buried in his shoulder—which is hard, because Eren's always been shorter. Eren rocks them and murmurs, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm not scared, asshole!" Jean yells, right in Eren's ear. "I'm…I'm…I'm angry! Shut up, I hate you!" Then he hugs Eren tighter, and smells him—doesn't even try to hide it; buries his face in Eren's hair and inhales deeply—and tries to get his breath back. "Oh my God, I can't believe you're here. I actually…I can't believe it…"

He pulls back, takes Eren's face in his hands and stares at him. He's so dark from the sun, and his eyes are impossibly green. It's so different from Skype. This is Eren in High Definition, Eren in front of him, tangible rather than an image on a computer that is little more than a concept. They kiss, and Jean feels it in his toes, even after they pull away and press their foreheads together, breath quaking out of them like they've run.

"You're shaking," Eren whispers in his ear, and he really is—his hands on Eren's face are practically vibrating, like every single one of his molecules is in shock.

"So are you," Jean whimpers, and struggles to get closer, to get everything of his pressed against everything off Eren's. "I missed you…oh my God, I missed you so much."

Eren makes an agreeing noise, drops little kisses onto Jean's face. Their friends have wandered away, probably because it's rather awkward to watch something like that, but also because some of them are in possession of the tact which Eren and Jean lack. Besides, at times like these it's the job of the friends to vacate when the time comes, and they have some of the greatest friends in the world.

"When did you leave?" he murmurs against Eren's head.

"Um…midnight on the fifth? Afghanistan time. I had a ten-hour layover in England, then came straight here from the airport." He pulls away at last, just enough so they can actually see each other's faces, his arms still around Jean's waist. Jean is slowly becoming aware of what is going on around him again—the noises from the kitchen, their friends chatting and laughing.

"How long have you been planning this for?"

"Since I got my leave," Eren says, "Two weeks ago."

"And everyone was in on it?" Jean mutters. "Everyone but me?"

"Well, yeah. It wouldn't have worked otherwise. I mean, I understand that there was some confusion earlier about who was driving me from the airport—it was supposed to be Mikasa, but somehow it ended up being Connie of all people, not sure why." When Eren realizes that Jean is waiting for some sort of explanation, he sighs and pulls Jean closer, presses their hips together. "I know you're going to think I should have told you and just come home like a normal person, but I realized that I'd be coming back home on your birthday and…Well, I'm kind of vain, but we all know that, and something told me that I would make a pretty great birthday present for you this year. But, you know, I do have a return policy so tell me if I'm wrong and I'll go back, maybe mail you a pair of socks or something."

Jean slaps his arm, says, "Shut up!" and kisses him. "You're…a really good birthday present, alright? Top five, definitely."

"Top five?"

"Well, in fifth grade I got a pottery making set—"

Now Eren hits his arm, laughing, and they chuckle with their foreheads pressed together again, breathe each other in, not quite ready to let go yet. Jean doesn't think he'll be letting Eren out of his sight for at least a week—they'll shower together if they have to.

Which, actually, doesn't sound terrible.

"Jean," Eren murmurs, after they've been standing in suspension for a small eternity. "Let go for a second, okay? I need to do something."

"No," Jean mutters, in a joking tone to cover up the fact that he actually _loathes _the idea of not touching Eren right now. Even so, he lets Eren go, and watches as he pulls something out of his pocket, takes a step back, and kneels down. For the second time, Jean screams. "No! No, you're not doing this right now, Eren Jaeger, I am…I am not able to…Oh my God."

"Jean," Eren says slowly, amusedly. Somewhere to his left, Armin reemerges from the kitchen, cued it would seem by the sound of screaming, with the camera. They'll be all over YouTube by tomorrow night, he's sure. "I know we said that we would talk about this once everything was a little more…stable. But knowing us, things are never really going to be stable, so I might as well ask now. Will you marry me?"

Jean points a finger. "This is why! Isn't it? Forget that birthday shit, you just wanted to make a spectacle of a fucking marriage proposal, didn't you?"

Eren laughs. "Hey, man, whatever floats your boat. But seriously, will you?"

In what will probably go down in history as the most lackluster response to a marriage proposal to ever be given, Jean tosses his hands up and says, "Yeah! I mean, I suppose I have to after you came across a goddamn ocean to ask me!"

The shakes are back—they never really left, to be completely honest—and Eren slides the engagement ring onto Jean's quaking finger, kisses him, and murmurs, "Calm down."

"It's just…a lot," Jean whispers. "But in a good way."

"I know," Eren replies, and mouths, "I love you," against Jean's skin.

"You too," Jean breathes into his ear, as Armin closes the camera, and in the kitchen their friends cut into a cake that just says _Congratulations_.

With so many things to celebrate, it's really the only appropriate thing.

* * *

**End Story**

* * *

**Notes**: Thank you for reading! I wrote this in six hours because I'm a lazy piece of trash trying to avoid actually working on things that matter like the four WIPs I have sitting around. I also wanted to write some Erejean because there's been hate on tumblr and it makes me angry. Jean was OOC, I realized that about halfway through. Oh well. Hope you enjoyed, have a nice day!


End file.
